


Feeling a Lot of Déjà Vu, Again

by stargate-ruiner (purpleplanet)



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: (Owen probably also has PTSD), AU where Owen doesn't die, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Curt has PTSD, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, I just...want these boys to be happy, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, M/M, Unofficial Sequel, and we're not gonna ignore that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-01-13 06:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18463019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleplanet/pseuds/stargate-ruiner
Summary: Owen Carvour is "dead" again.Curt Mega is "retired" again.But things are never really how they seem, are they?Set after the events of Spies Are Forever. What if Owen didn't die? (Spies never die, after all). Snapshots of Curt and Owen's life together after their reunion and confrontation.





	1. Morning

Owen laid next to Curt, sheets pulled halfway over his chest, as if he gave a shit about modesty. He was staring straight ahead, not looking at his partner in bed with him. The lit cigarette rested delicately in his mouth, and as he pulled it out and exhaled, he sighed and said “You know what they’ll do to you if they find out about this.”

Curt spared a glance over at him, before wincing slightly as he replied, “I’m not a spy anymore.”

Owen let out a light chuckle. “Right. Neither am I.” He still didn’t look in Curt’s direction. “But you _are_ a criminal.” he said with a shrug.

Curt scoffed. “Did you maybe get yourself confused with me there?” Curt didn’t always walk the straight-and-narrow sure, but his line of work requires one to be a little loose with their morals. He wasn’t a criminal, though.

Now Owen rolled over to face him, smiling wolfishly. “Well, Love, there are a lot of ways to describe what we did last night.” He paused, gauging Curt’s slightly flustered reaction, before continuing, “But a court of law might call it: _Aiding and Abetting_.” And the fucker had the audacity to wink at him.

Curt sighed loudly and slumped back down onto his pillows. He hated to admit it, but Owen was right. He knew he was operating outside the law. But, truth be told, he almost didn’t care.

Owen rolled back onto his back, before putting out his cigarette and dropping it in the ashtray on his bedside table. “How long are you going to keep doing this, hm?” he asked.

“As long as you’ll stay.”

Owen nodded with understanding. “Because every moment you’ve got me in your bed…” he turned back again to face Curt, “is a moment you know I’m not double-crossing you, backstabbing you, betraying you and running back to Chimera, is that right?” he smirked slightly, but Curt could tell there was no joy in it, only pride in his own intelligence.

Curt shrugged. “Pretty much.”

“Pretty much!” Owen repeated with a sharp laugh. “So that’s it? This is just another job to you? Another ‘mission of seduction, keep the target in your sights’?” he questioned in a mocking tone.

Curt sat up and stared at him incredulously. “What? No!”

“No?”

“No!” Curt replied defensively. “It’s more than that! You know that!”

“It’s about 'saving the world', right?” Owen teased.

“If it was just about saving the world then I would have just killed you when I had the chance!” he snapped. He had always hated taking that tone of voice, but Owen really knew how to bring out the worst in him.

“Then what?” Owen raised an eyebrow, still somehow acting above it all.

Curt stared at Owen, hesitant but defiant. Owen’s high and mighty demeanor often got on his nerves even long before...what happened...and it flared up Curt’s competitive spirit and made him want to prove himself. Still, he didn’t want to make this confession here and now. He had always managed to be content with leaving it unsaid, but now Owen was trying to force it out of him under the worst circumstances. He took a deep breath, trying to steel himself before speaking. “You tied me to a chair and tortured me, nearly killed me multiple times, worked with Nazis, killed 1147 people, and tried to overthrow the American Government! And after all that, after all that, I spared your life, I protected you, I took you in, let you stay in my house. I even…” he suddenly felt very vulnerable at the thought of last night, and the reminder that he was currently lying naked in bed with his long presumed-dead lover “ _aided and abetted_ you” he finished, turning Owen’s own words against him. He couldn’t hide his slightly proud smirk at that moment of cleverness. “Obviously I didn’t do that because I wanted to save the world. I did that because -” he quickly cut himself off, not wanting to expose too much.

Owen looked taken aback, sheepish even. His eyes were wide, clearly he hadn’t been expecting the ferocity with which Curt fought back. Still he pressed on, in a much quieter voice now, which slightly cracked “Because?”

Curt let out a rough groan of frustration, before throwing his hands up in annoyance. “Because I love you, okay? Is that what you want to hear? I loved you when we were partners and I never got over it. We never said it out loud. Couldn’t, obviously. But I loved you then and I never stopped.” He shrunk back, turning away over the side of the bed, before he could see Owen’s expression in response.

Owen stared at him, stunned and silenced, before dramatically flopping back onto his back and staring up at the ceiling arms spread at his sides. He mulled the words over in his mind. He had been playing the part of a ruthless killer for so long, he was worried that he had entirely forgotten how to be a person, just a person. He let out a soft sigh, before wondering out loud, “Love, hm?”.

Curt, still sat up over the side of the bed with his back to Owen, resisted the urge to look.

Owen sat up, ran a hand through his hair, and looked over at Curt, who still wouldn't face him, partially out of embarrassment and partially out of anger. Owen moved so that he was sitting next to Curt. “I haven’t let myself think about love in a long time” he admitted with a tilt of his head.

Owen “died” once before. Got a second chance at life. Now again, he’s “dead” and he’s got a second, second chance. He figured if nothing else, he might as well enjoy it.

“But I...if I might” Owen started, still with that British politeness he couldn’t shake. He reached out a hand and cupped it around Curt’s jaw, gently forcing him to face him. He looked into his eyes, trying to muster a softness he had worked so hard to bury. He crashed into Curt suddenly, capturing his lips in a kiss that started sweet and turned passionate quickly.

Curt’s eyes briefly snapped wide open in surprise before fluttering closed. He barely even attempted to fight him off before letting go and completely melting into the embrace, throwing his hands into Owen’s hair and on the base of his neck, pulling him closer. _God I’m weak,_ he thought to himself. He could taste Owen’s last cigarette is his mouth and he involuntarily let out a soft moan as their kiss became more intense.

Owen was first to break the kiss, pulling away carefully and untangling his arms from Curt’s body. He grinned slightly, seeing how out of breath and flushed Curt was. He opened his mouth to speak but Curt gave him a look that told him he already knew what he’d say.

And Curt was fine with leaving it unsaid for now. Just like old times.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed chapter one! Kudos and comments are appreciated!


	2. Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to the ending of Spies Are Forever. How it really happened.

Curt had Owen cornered. From his place lower on the stairs, his gun was pointed right at Owen’s head, and Owen was unarmed.

“What are you doing?” Owen challenged.

“Taking your advice.” Curt replied and pulled the trigger.

At the sound of a gunshot, Owen instinctively dropped. But Curt had shifted his position so that the bullet would blow past the side of Owens head. It missed him by near inches. With that precision, at this range, Owen knew it had to have been intentional.

Curt moved up the stairs, and stood over Owen, who was sprawled on his back against the steps. He was more vulnerable now than he had ever been, and he hated it.

Curt kept his gun pointed at Owen. “Don’t make me do this!” he shouted, pain staining his voice, “I can’t have your life on my conscience! Not again!” he pleaded.

Owen scoffed, somehow, even at his lowest point, able to maintain his suave persona. “You left me for dead once! What’s so different now?”

“I DIDN’T LEAVE YOU!” Curt shouted. He could feel the beginnings of tears burning in his eyes but tried desperately to force them back. “I didn’t leave you.” he repeated, with more composure. “After that building blew, I ran back into the rubble, while it was still burning, digging for any sign of you. Even if all I found was your body, I wanted to have something to bring back. It went against all protocol, but I didn’t care! I couldn’t just let you go.” He grit his teeth. “Cynthia had to send another agent to literally drag me out of the debris.” He sighed, exasperated, and his throat ached. “I didn’t leave you.” he heard voice cracking as he strained not to cry, “I went back.”

Owen’s eyes were wide and his face went pale. He had already crawled out of the building by the time Curt had returned. He hadn’t even considered that he might have come back. All of his obsession with revenge, all for that one moment -- entirely pointless. He thought he was going to be ill.

Curt speaking again snapped Owen’s focus back to reality. “I don’t want to kill you! Please!” he begged “Please just come with me.”

Owen stared up at him, brows furrowed. “But, Chimera-”

“Is over! We’ve already taken out one of your bases!”

“That’s not the only base! I’m not even the head of-”

“We’ll figure it out! Damn it, just come with me!”

Owen stared at Curt, still hesitant. Curt could sense that his involvement in Chimera was more deeply motivated than just a revenge plot. Still, he held strong. He gestured with his gun. “If you don’t come with me, I’ll kill you right here!” he threatened, though it felt empty, “Under all that bravado you must still have _some_ kind of instinct for self-preservation!” he snapped.

“If you don’t kill me, they’ll hunt me down! All sides! _Your_ agents for betraying them! Chimera for betraying _them!_ I won’t have anyone!”

Curt could hear the desperation in Owen’s voice. “You’ll have me.” he said firmly. He held out his arm to Owen.

Owen stared at the outstretched hand, a sign of peace if he ever saw one. If he noticed how badly that hand was shaking, he didn’t comment on it. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out his own arm and grasped Curt’s hand, letting him help him back up onto his feet. They ran out of the building together and into the pitch black night.

They didn’t look back. And if it so happened that they never separated their hands? Left the building, left their pasts, hand in hand, white knuckled holding onto each other in desperation? So be it.

 

 


	3. Mourning

According to all records, Owen Carvour was dead.

 

But he was currently lounging around Curt Mega’s house in a distinct state of undress.

 

Curt stood in front of his mirror, adjusting his hair.

 

He always took forever on his hair, Owen remembered. One of his favorite ways to annoy Curt, back before everything changed, was to run his hands through his hair and muss it up. He smiled to himself at the memory. Despite it all, after all those years he still held onto that sweet nostalgia. He strode up behind Curt, who met his eyes in the reflection. “Your hair looks fine, Love.”

 

Curt huffed. “It’s midday and you still haven’t put a shirt on?”

 

Owen laughed lightly. “It’s not as if I have anywhere to be.”

 

“Unlike me.” Curt’s hand moved from his hair to adjust his jacket. He was wearing his best, darkest, suit.

 

Owen moved closer to him, to the point that his bare chest was against Curt’s back and slung an arm over Curt’s chest. “Oh?”

 

Curt gave Owen a slightly dismissive look in the mirror. “Your funeral is today.” he muttered.

 

Owen raised an eyebrow. “They still give a proper burial to a traitor like me?” he asked, genuinely surprised. After the reputation he’d garnered, he expected that he might just be scrubbed from the records entirely. Erased and forgotten. Thrown out.

 

Curt gave a sympathetic smile. “You were a good agent, despite everything.” he reminded his partner, “And maybe some details were left out of your mission report” he added, ducking his head slightly, “Who’s to say?”

 

Owen smirked. “Curt Mega, you sly dog! Always looking after me.”

 

Curt shrugged, before checking his watch and realizing he had to head out if he didn’t want to be late.  “I’ve got to go.”

 

Owen pulled his arm off of him, and Curt moved to head out the door. He grabbed his essentials and nearly exited before Owen called out “Wait!”

 

“What is it?” Curt asked, slightly annoyed. He was going to be late to his own not-dead lover’s funeral.

 

“Your tie.” Owen walked over to Curt and reached a hand out to adjust and straighten his black silk tie. Even if this funeral was a sham, appearances mattered to Owen, and Curt should at least _try_ to look put together.

 

“Thank y-” Curt was cut off by Owen tugging on his tie and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. He closed his eyes, ready to deepen it, but Owen had already pulled away. He opened his eyes again to Owen grinning that goddamn grin he wore so well. Always so cocky.

 

Owen patted Curt’s shoulder, ushering him out the door. “Go. _Mourn_ me.”

 

Curt rolled his eyes as he left.

 


	4. Indulgences

That evening Curt arrived back home, and found Owen sprawled out on his couch, lackadaisically flipping through a book.  _ At least he put a shirt on, finally,  _ he thought to himself.

 

Owen looked up from the pages when he heard the door, seeing Curt standing in the doorway. He was slightly red in the face, his expression was soft, and he was breathing shudderingly. He met Curt’s eyes, and Curt sniffled. Curt was a good spy, but not a good actor, and Owen could read him, just the same as the novel he’d been paging through. Owen tilted his head, “Don’t tell me you were actually...crying over me?” 

 

At that, Curt averted his gaze, looking down in embarrassment.

 

Owen got up from the couch and approached him. He chuckled lightly, and spoke softly, almost whispering, “You do know I’m not really dead, Love?”

 

Curt flinched at his voice so close to him, and didn’t look up to meet his eyes. Owen had the height advantage on him, and Curt felt very small under his gaze. “It just...reminded me of the first time that I had to...y’know” he mumbled.

 

“The first time you had to “bury” me?” Owen tried to sound sympathetic. 

 

Curt nodded, sniffling again. “That time I really...I really thought you were dead.” he paused, trying to collect himself, “I thought you were dead and it was my fault. This brought back all of those memories.”  He could feel the tears forming again in his eyes, and tried to blink them away to no avail. He felt one slide down his cheek and cursed himself under his breath for showing weakness like this. 

 

Owen looked him, his expression all fondness and softness, and placed a gentle kiss to the top of Curt’s head. This got Curt to look up, and his watery eyes met Owen’s, as Owen gave him a small, sweet smile. “I’m right here.” he whispered.

Curt took a deep shaky breath. “I know.” he whispered back.

 

“Come on,” Owen said, gently helping Curt out of his jacket. He hung the jacket on the coat rack by the door and guided Curt to his bedroom. The two of them sat down on the edge of the bed, and Owen took Curt’s face is his hands. Curt’s lower lip trembled as he felt more tears spilling down his face. Owen moved his thumbs over his partner’s cheeks to wipe the tears away. He gave Curt a kind smile before completely embracing him, throwing his arms around him in a tight hug.

 

Almost instinctively, Curt buried his face into Owen’s shoulder, sobbing without holding back now. Owen pet the back of his head with one hand, letting him know that it was alright. Owen let Curt rest in his arms for a moment, knowing this was an indulgence for him. In the job of a spy, keeping emotions hidden was standard, and showing weakness of any kind could mean death. He let Curt have this, let him express his feelings freely, if only in the privacy of their embrace. This was an indulgence for Owen, as well. After years of masquerading as someone else, Owen had realized how much he’d missed being able to care for someone, show mercy and kindness to someone. He’d been starved for touch. Desperate just to lay his hands on someone not to hurt them, but to hold them. He hadn’t even realized until Curt had taken him in, and he’d suddenly started finding every excuse he could to wrap his arms around him, or plant kisses on him. He’d missed loving, and Curt had missed being loved. What a pair they made.

 

When it seemed Curt had relaxed enough, at least to stop crying, Owen separated from the embrace. “Love?” he started cautiously.

 

“Hm?” came Curt’s response. He looked tired and still somewhat bleary-eyed. 

 

“It’s late, Love, you should get some rest.”

 

Curt nodded. He got up to get undressed, and returned to bed and laid down on his side. 

 

Owen followed suit, crawling up to Curt’s place on the bed and curling around him. Big spoon. 

 

Curt sighed at the feeling of Owen holding him once more and leaned into the touch. Little spoon.

 

They fell asleep in each others’ arms. And when the sun rose the next morning, they lingered in the tender moment as long as they could. Clinging to each other, clinging to their love. Desperately, hopelessly, clinging to their indulgences. 

  
  



	5. Confessions

Curt was engrossed in his work. For all intents and purposes, he was “retired”, but with the knowledge that Chimera still existed, his work seemed like it’d never be finished. He’d been grilling Owen about the organization since he’d taken him in, but between how secretive they were even to their own members, and how much information Owen was probably willfully omitting, it felt like he wasn’t getting anywhere. He poured over his notes again, trying to connect the pieces, searching for something he might have missed.

 

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and jolted, startled. He whipped his head around to look behind him, only to find Owen, poorly stifling a laugh and holding his other hand up in a placating gesture.

 

It occurred to Owen that he could be an ass about it. _“What’s the matter, Curt? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”_ But he brushed the thought aside in favor of a more tactful approach. “It’s just me. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“I wasn’t scared.” Curt responded, defensively. He _wasn’t._ Just startled. Not _scared._

 

“Please,” Owen replied teasingly, “You reacted as if some killer had broken into the house!” He moved around the couch to sit beside Curt.

 

“You _are_ a killer.” Curt reminded him.

 

That shut Owen up. Curt wondered why. It was the truth, after all. Why did Owen seem so...ashamed now? He clearly hadn’t felt that way for years.

 

Curt pressed on. “You had a kill count of ...what was it? 1147? Or higher than that? I lost track.” He was being vindictive, he knew it, but this was the one point of anger he had never gotten over. He could understand wanted revenge on the agencies, he could understand wanting revenge on _himself_ even, but innocent people? There was no justification for that.

 

Owen blinked in surprise. “I didn’t kill those people.” he said, almost confused.

 

Curt balked at that. “Don’t lie to me. I saw the list. Faces and names. All attributed to you. If you didn’t kill those people then who did?” There was venom in his voice; the accusatory tone he took was one Owen was not used to hearing.

 

“The deadliest man alive -”

 

“You mean yourse-”

 

“Who I _killed_ ,” Owen continued, “and assumed the identity of.”

 

Now Curt was silenced.

 

“You may not have agreed with my methods, but I truly believed I was helping the world. I wasn’t a cold blooded killer, I was playing a part. I took the life of a man who’d been killing innocents. That is an act of _good_. And were there killings afterwards? Sure!” he averted his gaze from Curt, finishing in a low tone of voice, “but I never took any pleasure in it.”

 

Curt supposed it made sense. It wasn’t as though he’d never killed anyone before. He tried not to keep track of his own kill count. He didn’t like to think of that sort of thing, and besides, it’d find him in his nightmares whether he liked it or not. He had always assumed Owen was the same way, and now he found himself _wanting_ to believe him. Despite knowing he was a liar, a traitor, a criminal. Despite knowing that he should demand proof, he _wanted_ to believe Owen, so he let himself believe. Still, one thought gnawed at him.

 

“Oh, but you _took pleasure_ in having me tied to that chair like that. I saw you enjoying it.” He pushed. He knew this was dangerous territory, he _knew_ he shouldn’t press. He had seen, no, not just seen, _experienced_ what Owen was capable of. He had bruises that were still healing, and scars that probably wouldn’t heal at all to show for it. He’d been tortured before, but not like that. He had never felt that blend of hate and passion before. Only Owen. He took all of that rage inside of him and channeled it into sheer amusement. Toying with him and inflicting pain like he’d never felt. The sweetest tasting poison. So Curt pressed, “I _saw_ you enjoying it.” he repeated.

 

Owen chuckled darkly. His smile curled across his face, sharp and threatening. The curve of it reminded Curt of the machete he used to sling at his side. “You’ve got me there.” Owen tilted his head as if in agreement. Curt could sense malice, even in a movement so small. He could feel the change in Owen’s mood; he knew he’d just set him off.

 

Owen had always had a sort of darkness inside of him. Impulses that perfectly balanced Curt’s reckless optimism. It worked brilliantly on missions, but, _oh,_ Curt hated being on the receiving end of it.

 

Owen reached an arm out and snaked his hand around the back of Curt’s neck. He had memorized exactly where on his body he’d inflicted pain, left marks. His fingertips ghosted over the scars on Curt’s neck and Curt shivered reflexively. Owen looked at him closely, with trained focused eyes. As if he were inspecting him. As if he were sizing him up.  He spoke to him in a nonchalant yet cold tone, “You know how I can be. I’ve never been good at controlling my anger, and I’ve always jumped at the chance to rough you up like that on missions…” he paused, his hand moving from Curt’s neck to his face. He cupped Curt’s jaw; his thumb rested exactly where he knew a still-healing yellowish bruise blossomed. Owen continued, “And I really thought you’d left me to die. I really thought that you left me in that building, in agony, _waiting to die_. Do you have any idea how an explosion feels? It’s horrible. It’s the worst pain I’ve ever felt. And that coupled with the heartbreak I felt when I saw you just...running. Leaving me. I wanted to make you feel that same pain.” He pressed his thumb down against Curt’s flesh, applying pressure to the bruise.

Curt immediately reacted to the pain; a half-moan half-groan escaped his mouth. “A-ah!” he cried out. “Owen!”

 

Owen lifted his thumb. He paused a moment before leaning into Curt, planting a light kiss directly onto one of his scars. He pulled back slightly, bringing himself up so that he could whisper in Curt’s ear. Curt could feel his hot breath against his skin. “But if I had known then what I know now,” Curt swore he could feel Owen’s lips graze him as he spoke, “I would have gone easy on you.”

 

And then, Owen was at Curt’s neck, kissing him intensely. Curt struggled to keep his hands from flying into Owen’s hair and pulling him closer. It wasn’t an apology, not in the traditional sense, but Curt got the message. He knew Owen was being purposefully gentle, had felt Owen’s rough, possessive neck kisses in the past. This was Owen trying to show him that he could be tender, could still show sweet reverence for his lover, despite everything. And damn, if it wasn’t working. Curt could feel himself slipping, losing touch with the negative emotions that argument had flared up, giving in, letting himself enjoy the affection. His felt his eyes fall shut and involuntarily moaned as Owen hit the exact spot where he was most sensitive. He could feel the smile spread on Owen’s lips at that.

Curt tried to speak, “I-I want to believe you,” he found himself stuttering as Owen continued to kiss him, “I -ah!- want to forgive you…” he trailed off, unable to find the right words, especially given his current _distraction._

 

“Shhhh…” Owen whispered against his neck. “You don’t have to forgive me…” another quick chaste kiss to Curt’s neck, “I still haven’t forgiven myself.”

 

“Owen-” Curt was cut off by Owen shushing him again.

 

Owen went back to his work on Curt’s neck, his hands moving over Curt’s body, grasping at him and feeling him up. There was desperation in his actions, Curt could tell. He closed his eyes again, leaned into the touch, gave himself over.

Enjoyed it.

 


	6. Nightmares

Curt thought the dreams would have stopped by now.

 

After Owen “died”, Curt had such horrible dreams. He’d always had nightmares; it was hard to have a job so dependent on violence and not have nightmares.

 

But after the world took Owen, it was the same awful recurring dreams. Reliving that moment, watching him fall, seeing him still breathing and knowing that there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do. The sound of the explosion and the ringing in his ears, and the desperate crying, sobbing, Oh God, Owen's blood is on his hands, it’s his fault, he let his partner fucking die, Oh God there’s not even a body to bring back,  _there’s not even a fucking body_ , and he’s going to spend the rest of his life alone, Owen’s fucking dead, and he has to no one to blame but himself and --

 

“OWEN!”

Curt woke from the dream in a cold sweat, jolting awake with wide panicked eyes. Shouting Owen’s name reflexively.

 

Owen, who was on the other side of the bed, watching from a safe distance, flinched at the sound of it.

 

Curt was breathing deep, heaving breaths, trying to ground himself back into reality. His eyes darted desperately around the room, and when he looked to his side, he saw Owen looking back at him with a concerned expression.

For half a second, Curt thought it was another hallucination, another flashback. Then he remembered.  _Right, Owen is alive. Owen lives with you now._

 

Curt hunched over and threw his head into his hands. He was still shaking and breathing raggedly. Owen couldn’t tell from his vantage point whether or not he was crying or just out of breath. Owen considered that it might be both.

 

“You were having a nightmare.”

 

“ _No_   _shit.”_ It came out meaner than Curt had intended, but he did not currently have the emotional capacity to care. He didn’t take his head out of his hands.

 

Owen watched him cautiously. Too wary to reach out and touch him, too nervous even to speak up. He didn't want to make anything worse. He fidgeted where he sat, legs tucked up to his chest, making him appear smaller. He didn’t mean to stare, and would occasionally avert his gaze out of politeness, but found that he couldn’t completely tear himself from the heart wrenching image of his lover sobbing and frightened.

Owen wished he knew what people were supposed to do in these sorts of situations. He couldn’t even remember if you were supposed to wake someone up from a nightmare or let them ride it out. And for the past four years he hadn’t done much comforting.

 

“Curt?” his voice came out quieter than he’d expected. He didn’t think it sounded like himself. “Are you alright?”

 

Curt shook his head, which was still buried in his hands, before taking a deep shaky breath and looking over at Owen. His eyes were still watery.

 

Owen thought he looked like a kicked puppy. He felt a dull pain in his chest seeing Curt like this.

“Would it help to talk about it?”

 

Curt swallowed hesitantly. “It was about you.”

 

Owen nodded, knowing that the absolute panic in Curt’s voice as he woke up screaming Owen’s name was something he wouldn’t soon forget.

 

“About you, uh, about you dying. Or, I guess, when I  _thought_  you died.” Curt finished, still sniffling.

 

In lieu of a response, Owen waved his hand to beckon Curt to come closer to him. Curt obliged, shifting across the bed towards Owen.

 

When he was close enough, Owen wrapped his arms around Curt and held him close. Curt closed his eyes and leaned in, resting his head on his lover’s chest. Owen gently carded his fingers through Curt’s hair. He got the inclination that he might be sitting stiffly, and tried to relax, tried to make his posture and mannerisms seem more tender. Internally, he chastised himself for being so cold and calculated, even during what should be warm moment. He wanted to feel like a person. Like a human being with a lover in his arms, not just a weapon with the safety on.

 

Curt nuzzled him slightly, snuggling further into the embrace, which broke Owen out of his train of thought. He looked down at Curt, who seemed, finally, to be calming down slightly.

 

“Can you hear my heartbeat?” Owen asked after a moment.

 

Curt listened for a few seconds before replying, “Yeah.”

 

“Then you know I’m right here. Still alive.”

 

Curt let out a sigh. “Yeah. You’re here. You’re safe. We’re safe.” He yawned. He seemed to be starting to fall asleep again, which Owen assumed was a good sign.

 

Owen wasn’t sure how Curt could already be so caring towards him. After what he’d done he knew he didn’t deserve it. He supposed it was just that Curt was coming down from a moment of such extreme anxiety. He probably wasn’t in his most clear state of mind. That had to be it.

Owen flexed the fingers on one hand, recalling the weapons he’d gripped in it, the amount of time he’d kept it balled into a fist. And now, it was gently caressing someone he’d once sworn he was going to kill.

 

Life was strange.

 

“You know, I have dreams like that too.” Owen informed him, in what he hoped was a gentle conversational tone, “Nightmares, I suppose is the better word.”

 

“Yeah?” Curt asked, not opening his eyes “What do you see?”

 

“Same event. Different angle.” he replied plainly.

 

“Oh.” Curt squirmed slightly, “God, I’m so sorry.”

 

“It’s --” Owen started, but no, it wasn’t alright. It still hurt. Old scars still ache. “I’m used to it.” he said finally.

 

“You shouldn’t have to be.” Curt mumbled into Owen’s chest tiredly.

 

Owen was glad Curt was falling asleep in his arms. Eyes closed, head leaned softly against his chest, tucked into his embrace.

 

It meant that Owen was  _somehow_  doing something right here.

 

And it meant that, in this moment, Curt wasn’t looking at him.

 

Owen really hated when people saw him cry.


	7. Scars

Comparing scars had, over time, become a sort of ritual to Curt and Owen. Part of it was simply that it was an excuse for the two of them to take their shirts off around each other before either of them was comfortable putting words to the way they both felt. But more than that, it was a good way to catch up with each other after being apart for long periods of time, away on different missions. It let them share their adventure stories.

 

“Gunshot.”

“Stab wound.”

“Shark bite.”

“ _Bullshit.”_

 

And so on, until they had told all the new stories they had to tell, laughing and watching each fondly the whole way through.

 

It had been four years since they’d last seen each other. They had a lot of catching up to do.

 

“And _that,”_ Curt pointed to a mark on his lower abdomen, “is where _you_ shot me.”

 

Owen examined the mark, raised and rough. It looked small compared to the damage it might have done, especially if he had been aiming for anything important.

“I wish I could kiss it better,” he said, half-sincere and half condescending, leaning to plant a kiss directly on the scar.

 

Curt gave him a tight-lipped smile. “That’s really fucking sweet.” adding, with no joy, but still smiling, “Barb had to pull a bullet out of me. With tweezers. And no anesthetic.”

 

Owen shifted nervously, on the couch where they both sat, averting his gaze out of embarrassment.

 

Curt laughed. “You can’t solve all your problems with kisses, Carvour.” He laughed again, when he saw Owen give a sort of half-hearted smile in response to his remark. “Anyway, it’s your turn. Shirt off.” Curt made a gesture, waving his hand as if to say _get on with it._

 

“Really Curt, I don’t think we need to --”

 

“Come on!” Curt cut him off, “No excuses.”

 

“But you’ve already seen everything, even the first night I stayed here!” Owen insisted.

 

“I didn’t get a good look.” Curt shrugged nonchalantly. “I was...distracted.”

 

Owen smirked, remembering exactly how _distracted_ Curt had been, before catching himself and returning to the moment. He looked at Curt, who in turn stared back with expectant eyes. Realizing he wouldn’t get anywhere arguing, Owen sighed deeply and pulled off his shirt.

 

Curt could see that Owen had gathered way more scars than him, various raised lines and marks dotted his chest and arms. Curt was about to reach out and trace one when Owen spoke up.

 

“It’s -erm- there’s more on my back.” Owen stated, somewhat hesitantly, before getting up to reposition himself with his back facing Curt. It was the truth, that’s where he had the most scars, but he also knew that he wouldn’t have to face Curt from this position. Owen could feel a deep sense of vulnerability tugging at him and was afraid it might be visible on his face.

 

Owen wasn’t kidding when he said there were more scars on his back. The whole thing appeared like a patchwork of intersecting lines, some healing, some that looked like they might not heal at all, and some that Curt couldn’t tell. Curt tried not to think about exactly what these scars implied. The amount of pain Owen had suffered over the past four years. The amount of times he’d been literally _stabbed in the back._

 

He immediately started running his hands over the scars, tracing the patterns they formed. He  followed them like a winding path, like he was solving a maze. He kept his touch light, delicate. Owen shuddered slightly at the initial contact, but exhaled and reminded himself that he was safe, leaning into the touch.

 

Curt ran his index finger along a particularly nasty scar that snaked its way across Owen’s mid back. “This one isn’t healing correctly.” He said quietly, voice tinged with concern.

 

“It’s not?” Owen’s voice came out with a crack.

 

If Curt noticed, he didn’t comment on it. “No...it looks like it’s reopened a couple of times...maybe even deepened.” Curt tilted his head, examining the mark again, “But I’m no expert.”

 

Owen swallowed hoarsely. He couldn’t figure out why this was making him so on edge, but he tried to keep calm. “No, no, you’re probably right. Medical care wasn’t exactly priority at Chimera. As long as they had me alive.”

 

And for once, Curt didn’t press. He could almost sense how uncomfortable Owen felt, the anxiety radiated off of him like heat. He tried to change the subject, “How did you-”

 

“How did I get the scar?” Owen interrupted him. He thought for a moment before replying, “I don’t know. So much of it all blurs together.”

 

Curt supposed that made sense. It had been a long time, and his scars literally overlapped. Still, this was how they had always reconnected. He traced another scar. “What about--”

 

“I don’t know.” Owen’s tone was grim.

 

Curt nervously found yet another distinct mark, trying to continue their old ritual, “What about--”

 

Owen interrupted him again. “God, Curt, _I don’t know!”_ it came out harsher than he’d meant it to. “And even if I did, you wouldn’t want to hear the stories. These aren’t fun adventurous spy stories, Curt. I did some horrible things. I had some horrible things done to me. Anything I could remember clearly enough to tell the story…” He swallowed dryly, “I wouldn’t want to.” He shifted awkwardly where he sat. “Just...assume everything that isn’t from combat is from the explosion.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Owen winced. Curt’s voice sounded so small and weak and _hurt._ Damn it, of course he shouldn’t have mentioned the explosion. But it was the truth. He was most of the way out when the building blew but when it did...the shrapnel and debris tore him up.

He hated thinking about that night, absolutely loathed it. But Curt’s gentle hands tracing over his scars reminded him of the pain that caused them.

 

It occurred to Owen that he might be just like the scar Curt had pointed out earlier Never healing correctly. Reopening. Cutting deeper. Hurting worse.

 

He turned quickly to face Curt and found him with a dejected look on his face. He could tell Curt wanted things to go back to the way they were before that night in Russia. That’s why he was pushing so hard for a return to their old traditions. But those times were long past. Things changed. Right? It felt like things had changed. But, now, seeing Curt look at him with all that softness, and adoration, and care, and concern? God, it was just like when they’d first met. He melted like sugar in water. And seeing that sad look on Curt’s face? Even after four years of hate, he realized he’d do just about anything to replace it with a smile.

 

“Hey,” he started cautiously, drawing Curt’s attention. He pointed to a scar across his bicep, “See this one?”

 

Curt nodded. “Yeah?”

 

“When I first took over as the Deadliest Man Alive,” he began the story, “I picked up his machete, and I tried to twirl it in my hand.” he made a rolling gesture with his wrist to mimic the twirl, “Lost my grip. Caught myself right in the arm.”

 

Curt let out a snorting laugh before quickly throwing a hand over his mouth, desperately trying and failing to suppress his giggles.

“It’s alright, you can laugh. I can’t believe I thought I could just do that.” Owen couldn’t help but smile at Curt lighting up like that. “Even beyond the pain, it was just so embarrassing. In character as a world-class murderer and the first thing I do is drop my weapon of choice into my own arm!” he laughed lightly at his own misfortune. “You’re the first person I’ve told about it.” He tilted his head, “It left a hell of a scar.”

 

“Poor baby.” Curt said, voice dripping with sarcasm, “ _I wish I could kiss it better_ ,” he continued, jokingly imitating Owen’s accent, before leaning in and pressing a kiss the scar on Owen’s bicep.

 

“You! You little--” Owen started, frustration and annoyance easily overcome by the laughter that came bubbling out of him at the sight of Curt’s shit-eating grin looking up at him. “Curt Mega, you are _insufferable.”_ but the smile on Owen’s face said otherwise.

 

Curt closed the rest of the distance between them, throwing his arms around Owen in a hug. “You love it.”

 

Owen’s arms wrapped loosely around Curt’s body, completing the hug. And despite everything, _despite absolutely everything,_ he whispered in response: “I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the nice comments! I read every single one and they all mean so much to me!


	8. Hands

“I got you,” Curt fished around in the bag until he found what he was looking for, “a sketchbook, like you asked.”

He smiled and set the remaining grocery bags down on the counter. It had been the first time he’d been out properly shopping in a while, but down a job, and having Owen staying with him meant he needed to keep the place stocked.

 

Curt walked over to the couch to hand the sketchbook to Owen, who took it graciously, if slightly annoyed.

“You know, it would just be easier if you’d let me come with you.” he said

 

“Oh yeah sure, then you can judge me for not buying ‘all-organic’ or whatever.” Curt joked, walking back to the kitchen to start putting some of the groceries away. Turning again to face Owen, he made his expression more serious, “The government thinks you’re dead. If anyone sees you and recognizes you, then we’re both in trouble.”

 

“I know.”

 

“So until we get something figured out, and everything sorted --”

 

“Yes I --”

 

“It’s too much of a risk --”

 

“I’m aware --”

 

“But I’m sorry that --”

 

“It’s alright, I understand.”

 

The two spies talked over each other. It wasn’t out of rudeness, just years of practice and training leaving them able to get their points across to each other without finishing their sentences or pausing to let the other one speak without interruptions. They were in-sync enough that it worked and it made relaying information easy on missions.

But it’d been years since they were on a mission together. At least, since they were on the same side of one.

 

They stared at each other, somewhat wide-eyed.

Curt broke the tension first, with a light breathy laugh and a smile. “I, uh, I guess we’ve still got it, huh?”

 

“Hm.” Owen hummed, as if consideration, “It seems we do.”

 

Later that evening, the two of them sat on the couch together, both focused on their own task. Curt sifted through the various files he had on Chimera, still hoping that he could string something coherent out of what seemed to be an endless pile of loose ends.

 

Owen held his recently acquired sketchbook, legs tucked up to give it support, concentrating on his drawing. He was fixated on getting the shading just right, when he felt something grasping at his hand. Turning his head he found that it was Curt, who hadn’t even looked up from his own work, distractedly and blindly reaching around for Owen’s hand. When he seemed to have found it, he gently pushed Owen’s fingers open like the petals of a flower, creating an open palm and sending Owen’s pen onto his lap with a light plastic clattering sound. Then, Curt laced his fingers in between the spaces between his partner’s, curling their palms together. Owen’s fingers straightened reflexively, as if shying away from the touch. He tensed, his hand and his whole body, somewhat startled by the gesture. He glanced back at Curt, who still seemed entirely oblivious to his own actions, as if his hand had a mind of its own.

 

“Curt.” he said, attempting to get his attention.

 

In response, Curt tightened his grip, squeezing Owen’s hand briefly. He still didn’t look up.

 

“ _Curt._ ” he said, more forcefully this time.

 

Finally, that broke Curt out of his intense focus on his work. “What? “ he said, looking up at Owen.

 

Owen gestured, lifting their intertwined hands slightly. “I was using that hand, Love.” he smirked.

 

“Oh!” Curt blushed, smiling nervously “Sorry, I didn’t even realize!” he blurted out, stuttering slightly. He moved to untangle his hand from Owen’s.

At that, however, Owen was already curling his fingers around Curt’s hand, locking him in place like a Venus flytrap. Curt blushed harder, clearly flustered.

 

“Right then,” Owen raised an eyebrow, “what’s this about?”

 

Curt looked down nervously, “It’s going to sound stupid.” he said hesitantly.

 

“That’s never stopped you before.”

 

Curt let out a huff and gave Owen a pointed look. “ _Sometimes_ ,” he started, “when I see you out of the corner of my eye, I forget it’s really you.”

 

Owen looked confused. “What do you mean?”

 

“When I thought you died, I kept…” he fumbled for the word, “ _seeing_ you everywhere. Like a ghost, almost. It must’ve been some kind of flashback or hallucination or something. But I’d just freeze up and all I could...see...was...you.” He trailed off at the end, suddenly embarrassed. He thought he must sound completely insane. He looked at Owen to gauge his reaction.

 

“Oh, _that’s_ what that was!” Owen nodded in realization.

 

Curt looked back at him, puzzled. “What?”

 

“When your friend Tatiana knocked me out, I was actually unconscious for a few moments.” Owen explained, “When I was coming to, what woke me up was the sound of you calling my name.” He shook his head, smiling slightly, “I hadn’t heard that name in years. Brought me right back to the moment.”

 

“And then you shot me.” Curt reminded him abruptly.

 

“Yes, well, then I shot you.” Owen replied. “I already apologized for that.”

 

“Actually, you _didn’t.”_

 

“Well then, I _suppose_ ,” he drew out the syllable to show exaggerated sarcastic exasperation, “That I am _sorry_ for _shooting you.”_

 

Curt let a small smile slip. “Thank you.”

 

“Anyway, as I was saying, I couldn’t figure out why you would have called my name like that. I guess that was one of those...flashbacks, you called them?”

 

“Yeah that was one of them. They tend to happen when I’m stressed, but they can happen really any time.” He sighed. “So sometimes, even when I know you’re there, I have a hard time believing that it’s really you.”

 

Owen lifted their still interlinked hands to his face and placed a light kiss against Curt’s knuckles. “I’m here. It’s me.”

 

Curt nodded slowly, then cast his eyes downwards. Quietly, he muttered, “For the past four years, I thought you were _dead.”_ He said it as if he still couldn’t believe it.

 

“For the past four years, I thought you wanted me dead.” Owen replied nonchalantly.

 

Curt looked at him with wide eyes, “But you know that’s not true!”

 

“I know that _now,_ yes.” Owen looked back at him, meeting his eyes. “But from my position, it looked a lot like I was being deliberately left behind.” He tilted his head. “And besides, Chimera has a way of...getting into your head.” He tapped his temple with the index finger of his free hand to emphasize his point.

 

Curt furrowed his brow. “ _What did they do to you?”_ he asked in a pointed whisper.

 

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

 

“Owen, you know you can tell me anyth--”

 

“ _I said_ _I don’t want to talk about it._ ” Owen said, his tone rough but somewhat shaky. “Look, I know you’re convinced that they’re some shadowy evil organization, but they _found_ me and --”

 

“Please.” Curt interrupted him, stress evident in his voice, “Please don’t try to justify it to me. Not now.”

 

He didn’t say it, but Owen understood it being asked: _Please can we just enjoy this moment? Nothing is going to be the same, but for just this one moment can we please pretend everything is like it was before?_

 

Owen nodded. He kissed Curt’s hand again before dropping it back to his side. He hoped he wasn’t telegraphing his desperation, his answer to the unsaid questions: _Yes, God, I want that more than anything._

Curt shifted closer to Owen, scooching over so that he could properly lean on him. Glancing down, he noticed his new sketchbook resting his lap, once Owen had dropped his legs down from their curled-in position.

 

“What were you drawing?” he asked.

 

Owen scrambled to grab the book before Curt got a better look at it. “Oh! It-- nothing!” he answered finally after a brief moment of stuttering.

 

“Well if it’s nothing you wouldn’t mind me looking at it then!” Curt smiled devilishly before extending his arm to grab the sketchbook.

 

Owen tried to keep it out of his reach, but with one hand occupied, he had a much harder time.

Curt plucked the notebook from his lap and examined the page.

 

The drawing was barely half-finished. Still sketchy and smudged, stray lines. Still, the body form and face were familiar. He smiled with recognition and looked up at Owen with a warm expression on his face.

 

“Were you drawing _me?”_ Curt asked, a soft sense of awe evident in his voice.

 

Owen snatched the sketchbook back with his unoccupied hand, prying it out of Curt’s grip in a rough quick motion and tossing it aside lightly.

“Don’t read too much into it.” he struggled to hide his smile at Curt’s reverent reaction, “It’s just -- Look, alright, you’re good for figure practice, and I haven’t been around you for a while, and it’s an old habit, so I--”

His defensive ramblings were interrupted by Curt laying his head in his lap.

 

Curt pulled their entwined hands to rest on his chest as Owen dropped his head to look down at his partner.

 

“Thank you.” Curt said in a mellow voice.

 

“For what?” Owen asked with a quiet laugh, “Drawing you?”

 

“For coming back.” Curt ran his thumb gently over the back of Owen’s hand. “For staying.”

 

Owen blinked in surprise, giving a sort of lopsided smile down at Curt. “Ahem...well, thank you for having me.” he replied.

 

_Owen Carvour, always so damn polite._

 

Curt smirked at him, his voice soft and sarcastic. “Don’t read too much into it.” he mumbled.

 

Before Owen could respond, Curt had already turned his head to get comfortable, snuggled into position and let his eyes fall closed.

 

 _Good,_ Owen thought, _He’s been absolutely killing himself over his work. He deserves a break._

 

Realizing that he now couldn’t get up, he untangled his hand from Curt’s careful not to disturb him, and reached for his sketchbook from where he’d placed it. He gazed down at Curt fondly, savoring the moment, before flipping to a fresh page and starting a new sketch.


	9. Coffee

Curt woke in bed to the feeling of one of Owen’s gangly arms flopping on top of him.

 

“Get up.” Owen’s voice sounded groggy, almost as if he was still asleep. His accent was thicker than usual, his tiredness leaving it unmitigated.

 

Curt gave no response more than a grunt, and Owen lightly shoved him.

 

“Get _up.”_ he repeated, with pure annoyance.

 

Curt blinked his eyes, trying to bring himself to life. He kept his back turned to Owen, less than enthusiastic to greet the day after the rudeness of the push. “Ugh,” he groaned, “what time is it?”.

 

“I don’t know.” Owen replied, “It’s morning.”

 

Curt yawned. “Why did you wake me up?” he asked, slightly irritable and still drowsy.

 

Owen muttered something incomprehensible directly into his pillow, apparently having shoved his face back against it in an effort to keep out the bright sunlight starting to streak in through the windows.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“ _I_ _want a coffee._ ” Owen repeated, lifting his head from the pillow. His usual charm was completely dropped; his voice was almost a whine.

 

Curt rolled his eyes. “Get it yourself.”

 

“No!” Owen dropped his head back onto his pillow, with a near Shakespearean level of melodrama. “I can’t.”

 

“Oh really?” Curt questioned sarcastically, “Why can’t you?”

 

“I can’t, I--” Owen's eyes wandered as he racked his brain for a good excuse but found his cognitive processes slowed by the remnants of sleep and lack of caffeine. “I’m...dead.” he settled on finally.

It took him a few moments for the words that escaped his mouth to catch up to his brain. Once he realized what he’d said, he gave a smug smile and repeated it. “I’m dead.”

 

Curt rolled over to look at him now, his brow furrowed in frustration and confusion.

 

Owen couldn’t help but start to giggle at Curt’s bothered expression.

 

Curt reached an arm to lightly smack Owen. “That’s not funny!”

 

”It’s a little funny.” Owen protested, laughing even louder.

He noticed the way Curt’s expression softened slightly. He continued, now slightly more awake, “Regardless, I’m your _guest._ Whatever happened to hospitality?”

 

Curt scoffed. “You’re not my _guest._ You’re a _fugitive_ that I am protecting from the Secret Service.”

 

“Mm.” Owen hummed. “Do you sleep with all your fugitives or am I just special?”

 

Curt blinked in surprise at Owen’s frankness, his face flushing. Still, he tried to gather himself and give some kind of response “You’re special.” he mumbled shyly.

 

“I am?” Owen asked with mock sincerity.

 

Curt sighed and shifted closer to Owen before rolling himself so that he was properly directly on top of his partner, their chests pressed together and their faces only inches apart. He smiled as he played with the loose tendrils of messy hair that framed Owen’s face, having caught him at one of the rare times it wasn’t slicked back. “Yeah,” he chuckled a little, “you’re special.”

 

Owen matched his grin but quickly turned it into an exaggerated pout. “You’re not treating me like I’m special.” he complained.

 

“Special enough for me to spare your life after everything you’ve done.” Curt countered.

 

“Special enough for you to spare my life,” he lifted his lanky arms and brought them down to dramatically spread out on the bed, “but not special enough for you to make me even _one_ cup of coffee!”

 

Curt finally relented, with a sigh that turned into a yawn midway through. “Yeah, whatever, I’ll get you your coffee.”

 

“There he is.” Owen reached up to cup Curt’s face in his hands. “There’s the man I fell in love with.”

 

It was a bigger admission than Owen had realized as he’d said it. He was in _love_. Had been. Still was. Four years of pure resentment and vengefulness, all washed away in the early morning. Too tired to remember how to hate, too caffeine-desperate to keep up his defenses. Was it worth letting everything out like this for what? A cup of coffee, and only coffee because he remembered that Curt never kept any tea in his home? Did he really have to go and just say --

 

Curt derailed his train of thought by leaning further down and closing the distance between them with a kiss. He silently hoped that he didn’t have any morning breath.

He pulled away gently, looking down at Owen with a caring smile, noting Owen’s wide-eyed surprised expression at the sudden affectionate gesture. Suddenly a little embarrassed, he cleared his throat awkwardly. He moved to get off of him, “I’ll get your coffee.”

 

“Thank you, dear.” Owen replied, with a comforting smile. He watched Curt get up from the bed and turn to leave, letting him get nearly halfway through the doorway before calling out “Oh, and, Curt?”

 

Curt turned around with expectant eyes. “Yes?”

 

“Do pick up some Earl Grey next time you shop, would you, Love?”

 

Curt rolled his eyes again and gave a joking salute. “Can do.”

 


	10. Revelations

Cynthia called Curt (on the telephone, she’d made him turn in his watch, along with his clearance badge) and Curt was grateful to hear her familiar voice again, even if she was still constantly on the verge of cursing him out.

 

“I sent you something in the mail.” she said, “It should have arrived today.”

 

Curt examined the manila envelope in his free hand. “Yeah, I got it.” He turned it over and found it to be nearly unmarked aside from the mailing information. “What is it?”

 

“We intercepted a transmission from Chimera. We don’t know who sent and we don’t know who was supposed to receive it.” Cynthia explained “Goddammit I shouldn’t even be telling you this. You’re still fucking fired.”

 

Curt gulped, “I know.”

 

“But because it pertains to _your_ mission specifically, I can _technically_ consider it part of your debriefing. It hardly involves any information you don't already know.” She sighed loud enough that Curt heard it through the phone, “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, Mega. I know you don’t just let shit go.”

Curt tried to speak but Cynthia interrupted him, “ _I am bending the rules to send this to you._ Do not make me fucking regret it. Understood?”

 

Curt nervously hesitated briefly before replying. “Understood.”

 

“Good. Enjoy your _retirement,_ Agent Mega.” and with that, she hung up the phone.

 

Curt sat down at his kitchen table, and anxiously opened the envelope to reveal the single sheet of paper inside. The transcript of the intercepted message was printed across it. He poured over it, trying to take in every word. Cynthia was right, it didn’t reveal much. He didn’t like how callously they talked about the base that Tatiana destroyed, seemingly representing it as more of a test than their main plan. The reminder of just how much power the organization still held made his stomach turn. Other than that, however, it seemed to be nothing more than a basic recap of the events that transpired that night. Relatively standard. Nothing he wouldn’t have expected. Except for --

Curt reread the sentence to make sure he hadn’t misinterpreted it.

_Oh no._

 

Curt was interrupted from his descent into concern by the feeling of Owen’s arms snaking over his shoulders from behind.

 

“Doing a little light reading this afternoon, are we?” he smirked.

 

“Owen! Hi!” Curt turned his head quickly in surprise. In the same motion he tried to drop the document and cover it with his forearms, but the haste and clumsiness of his actions only made his movements more suspicious.

 

Owen raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want me to see it?”

 

“No, I just --”

 

“So you _do_ want me to see it?”

 

“Well, I --”

 

“Really, Curt, is it secret or not?”

 

“It’s --”

 

And with Curt distracted, Owen easily reached down and deftly stole the paper out from under him. He held it up to look at it, using his height to keep it out of Curt’s reach.

 

“You really shouldn’t read that.” Curt tried to warn him, hands grabbing at the paper to no avail.

 

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad.” Owen scanned the document, “Oooh, Chimera!” he exclaimed with mock intrigue. “Did you finally get some worthwhile intel on my former employers? Anything I would--” he suddenly cut himself off.

 

Curt watched with panicked eyes as Owen fell silent, his expression quickly being much darker than the joking look he’d had earlier. He could practically see him clench his jaw.

 

Owen’s eyes bore into the document, fixated on the same phrase Curt had been just a few moments before.

 

_“Now that Agent Owen Carvour is dead, as anticipated…”_

 

_“dead, as anticipated…”_

 

 _“_ ** _as anticipated_ ** _…”_

 

So much weight was held in those two little words. They had expected him to die. Owen gripped the paper tighter without realizing, his hands shaking slightly as he crumpled the edges of it. He began to think aloud, so quietly Curt almost couldn’t make out the words. His expression looked dazed, almost numb.

“It was a suicide mission.” he continued to stare at the paper, “Because it doesn’t matter if you send someone on a suicide mission...if...they’re...already...dead.” he finished his realization, speaking the words slowly like he didn’t want to believe them.

He turned to look at Curt. “How long have you had this?”

“Owen…” Curt tried to sound calming.

“ _How long_ ,” Owen interrupted him, repeating his question more harshly now, “have you had this?”

“It came today. I’m reading it for the first time now, same as you.”

Owen shut his eyes, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of nose like he had a headache. “Please don't lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!” Curt insisted.

 

Owen nodded, taking another deep breath. He tried to steel himself, but Curt could see every one of his facial features wavering.

 

“I wish that damn explosion had just killed me.”

 

Curt felt something within him break. He turned to Owen in shock. “Owen! Come on, don’t--” he stuttered feeling himself losing control over his emotions, “Don’t say things you don’t mean.” his voice came out with a crack.

 

Owen seemed almost not to hear him. “I just wanted out.” His voice trembled as he spoke. “All my life, I’ve been used as a pawn in someone else’s game. I just wanted it all to be _over_. I just wanted _out_.” his voice raised with his distress.

He could feel tears start to form in his eyes and he tried to fight them back, desperately turning his head down and away so his hurt expression wouldn’t be seen.

 

Curt rose from his chair, slowly and cautiously, as if afraid that a sudden movement or sound would send Owen running. He could hear how labored Owen’s breathing had become. He carefully reached out a hand, guiding Owen’s face back towards his.

Curt looked into Owen’s eyes. He looked terrified, his misty eyes looked anywhere but at the man in front of him. He looked wounded, Curt noted, he looked _scared._

“Hey, look at me.” Curt spoke softly.

 

“They were using me. Like everyone else, they were just fucking using me.” He finally managed to make eye contact with Curt, though his gaze still seemed distant. “Everything I did for them. Everything they _did to me._ None of it meant anything. _”_ He took a deep shaky breath, trying to force himself not to cry. “I just wanted out.” he repeated.

 

Curt looked back at him with a gentle sympathetic expression, lowering his eyebrows and giving a weak, hesitant smile, glad that Owen had at least met his eyes.

 

“Stop looking at me like that.” Owen blurted.

 

Curt tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

 

Owen scoffed humorlessly. “Like you _care_ about me.”

 

Curt blinked in surprise. “I do care about y-”

 

“Oh, drop the act!” Owen threw his hands up angrily.

 

“It’s not an act! God, Owen, can’t you see how much you mean to me?” Curt furrowed his brows, pained to hear his partner assume the worst.

 

“They expected you to kill me.” his throat was hoarse and dry, aching with every word he coughed out.

 

“Yeah? Well, I didn’t!” Curt shouted.

 

Owen choked back a sob. “ _Maybe you should have._ ” he tried to tuck his head again, but Curt’s grip, cautious as it may be, held him in place. He tried to blink back his tears, feeling his eyes burn. “I don’t...You’ve been so kind to me... I don’t _deserve--_ ”

 

“Damn it, stop saying things like that! I could never--” Curt shook his head “Owen, I _love_ you.”

 

The dam burst. All at once, a strangled sob escaped Owen’s throat as tears began to stream down his face.

Curt instinctively threw his arms around Owen, pulling him into a tight embrace. Owen faltered initially, but soon found himself returning the hug, wrapping his arms around Curt and grasping, nearly clawing at his back, digging in his fingertips like he was afraid to let go. He buried his head into Curt’s shoulder, muffling his crying.

Curt reached a hand up to run his fingers through Owen’s hair, eliciting another gasping sob.

Between heaving breaths, Owen managed to force out a few words, struggling with them as though they were ripping themselves out of his voice “I’m... _fuck..._ I’m so sorry.” he screwed his eyes shut, embarrassed at his vulnerability.

 

Curt shushed him, continuing to tenderly pet his hair, hoping to let him ride the emotions out and calm down, but Owen pulled back abruptly.

He looked frightened, shaking and nearly hyperventilating from the looks of it. Anxious and ashamed of himself for breaking down.

 

Curt cupped Owen’s face in his hands in an attempt to ground him in the moment. “Hey.”

When Owen didn’t react, he repeated it.

“ _Hey.”_ he said, firmly but gently, finally drawing Owen’s full attention. He took a deep breath. “Someday this is all going to be over.”

 

Owen still looked perturbed. “It’s _not.”_ he protested, “There’s always another--”

 

Curt leaned forward, drawing Owen’s face closer to his own until their foreheads rested against each other. “ _Someday, this is all going to be over.”_ he repeated. “Someday, we won’t have to lie, or fight, or give up our lives, or hide parts of who we are. We’re not just going to be spies. We’re going to be…” he searched for the right word “ _people._ We’re just going to be people. Human beings. We’re just going to be _ourselves._ And we’re going to be safe, and we’re going to be free, and we’re going to be _out._ Someday, it’s all going to be alright.”

 

Owen stared at him, exhaling a shuddering breath as more tears began to roll down his cheeks. He wanted to believe Curt’s promise, recklessly optimistic as it might sound, though it seemed impossible to him, he _wanted_ to believe it. _Wouldn’t it be nice to just believe something like that?_

He found himself unsure of how to reply, the thousands of thoughts cluttering his mind making every emotion he felt seem uncontrollably overwhelming. He fell back on his instincts and said the first thing that crossed his mind.

“I love you.”

 

Curt let a small airy laugh escape his lips, his own eyes watery by now, and gave a soft quivering smile. “I love you, too.” he breathed.

 

They paused for a moment like that, just letting their words hang in the air, lingering. Curt pulled back slightly, moving his hand to wipe the tears from Owen’s face. Owen smiled hesitantly, grateful, before leaning forward and kissing Curt. It lasted barely a few seconds, before he pulled away, but at the loss of contact Curt’s hands flew back into Owen’s hair to pull him closer and kiss him again, deeper this time.

Curt then pulled away slowly, smiling reassuringly. Owen returned the smile tentatively. He let his eyes fall shut as he nodded slowly.

"Someday." he whispered.

"Someday." Curt agreed, "And then forever."


End file.
